I Owe Him My Life
by bricheez19
Summary: Katniss won the 74th games, and Peeta never participated in them. but now the quarter quell comes up, and shes finally mentoring. how far can she go to save the person she loves. no matter what it takes... can she do it, or will she fail?


**Hey guys, so before I do my sequel to ****the girl with the bread and the boy on fire,**** I am going to write this story. So I hope you guys like this story, and please review.**

** Disclaimer: I do now own the Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins does. I wish I do, but I don't.**

**Okay please enjoy, and don't forget to review.;)**

Chapter 1:

Sitting here on the chair waiting for the names to be called out sucks. This is my first year of mentoring, and I don't like this. I don't think I can go through and watch two children die because of me. I already had to watch my district tribute Ryan Cane, die in my arms last year while I was in the 74th hunger games.

He sacrificed his life for me. If he didn't distract the careers so I could of escaped, I would not be sitting in this chair, staring at the helplessly children right now. The children stare at me like I can help them, but I can't. I can't do anything but watch their names get picked. I spot Prim in her rope off section of 13 year olds, this is her second year of games. She got picked last year, and the reason why she didn't play was because I volunteered for her. So it's rarely rare that she will be picked again, but it is possible. I smile at her and search the crowd again.

I spot him and he smiles. Hes my best friend and he is always there for me. Gale….. But not today, he can't help me through this. I don't think anyone can.

My hands are shaking, and my breathing has become unstable. _Calm down Katniss, everything will be fine, _I tell myself. But it's just a lie, everything is not okay. There are so many children I know that can get pick. Rosy, Rosy, Vick, and Prim. I would add Gale into it, but hes 19 now, too old to be reaped. They cannot be picked today; I will not be mentoring my first year with someone that I care about.

Haymitch stumbles over to the chair next to me and has to hold onto my sleeve so he won't slip.

"Ouch!" I shout wiping his hand off my arm, leaving red marks.

"Oh shut up…." mumbles Haymitch. His breath reeks with alcohol and I have to hold onto my breakfast that I had this morning.

I turn the opposite direction and gulp down as much air as I can. The mayor finishes his speech and Effie skips towards the podium.

"Happy hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor. I hope the tributes would be as good as the tributes from last year." the crowd claps slowly. She means me, because last year was very bloody.

Memories come quickly, and I close my eyes, trying not to picture the games.

"Because it's the Quarter Quell, these hunger games will be different. This year each district will be sending a pair of couples, two love birds." Effie chimes.

My shoulder drops. This year, they want a love story. How am I going to mentor my first year, watching these love birds die. I don't think I can do this. I quickly glance at Haymitch, who stares at me with the same look in the eyes, this year will be the best show yet. I know it.

"The couple for this year games are…" she walks over to glass bowl and pulls a slip that first comes to her, which holds two names. A girl and a boy.

"….Rebecca Willis and Peeta Mellark!"

My mouth drops, it can't be. Out of all the couples in district 12, why him? Why them? The memory comes as back as it was like yesterday.

It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer.

The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir; get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her.

I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into thatrough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes.

I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any hope.

I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck.

All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied.

When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare.

Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the

Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain.

There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, it's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black.

His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer.

The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with?

My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it. The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. I couldn't explain his actions.

I knew one day I would owe him. And that time is now. I owe him my life. And by that, I am going to save his life, no matter what it takes.

**thank you for reading this chapter. if you don't understand, this year, because it is the quarter quell, they are sending couples in. so Peeta and Rebecca are dating so they are being sent in. please review and I promise, this story will get better then it sounds. it will get very interesting. So please review. Pretty please. The more reviews I get, the faster I will get the next chapter up. Maybe Friday, or maybe tomorrow, it just all depends…..**

** so review**


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